


Sugar

by Missy



Category: Evil Dead (Movies), Evil Dead - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the morning following the battle, and Ash is headed home.  But for Sheila, it's not a time of celebration, and the letting go will be a gradual one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar

_"Don't say morning's come. Don't say it's up to me…If I could take twenty-five minutes out of the record books…sugar, he brings me sugar..."_ – Tori Amos, "Sugar".

***

He is, she decides, the broadest man in all of Christ's creation.

Lying pinned beneath his weight, Sheila drifts peacefully, still but for her stroking hands. They restlessly measure as they caress, secretly marveling at the transformation of her form and its endurance in the pursuit of love. How can they possibly commingle so freely? She cannot span his shoulders beneath her touch – his buttocks overfill her palms, solid flesh spilling free of her grip.

While her hands memorize the feel of his body, Sheila gazes upon Ash's face– the sharpness of his nose, his heavy and dark lashes, the prominence of his chin and the thinness of his lips – and locks away each precious piece of him in her memory.

Her touch and the lateness of the hour bring him awake. Ash cringes, his eyes rolling slowly open; mild confusion is replaced with satisfaction. His hand presses her bare lower back, securing the connection between them. "You're up."

"Good morrow." This domesticity, so new to her, feels oddly natural with him. His lips graze her forehead and she sighs, burrowing into his warmth, wishing she could stay in his arms for the rest of her life.

_Forever shall never be thine,_ she reminds herself, tearing at the fragile comfort between them, her unencumbered ring finger reminding her of the temporal nature of their love. She pushes at his shoulders and he rolls away, allowing Sheila her escape to the edge of the bed. "Would ye bathe again?" she asks, staring at the full and now-chilled tub at the opposing end of the chamber, which still wore a crown of soap bubbles.

She hears him sniff. "Nah, I'm good." The fur coverlet whispers against her sheets as he pulls it back. In her peripheral vision she sees his shadowed form, watches him stride about the room commandingly while collecting his discarded clothing.

She stands and instantly regrets her haste as pain echoes through her body. The aftereffects of the battle remain with her – the echo of his loving, and of the touch of his wicked doppelganger. A twinge shoots up from between her thighs and she flushes, forcing her stiff muscles into action, feeling Ash's gaze upon her back as she moves toward her vanity mirror and seats herself.

The morning sounds of Kandar drift up to her window from the bailey as Sheila brushes her hair – Arthur leading a drill in the courtyard, villagers hawking their morning fare, children laughing, a churchbell tolling the midmorning hour. All is as it was a week ago.

The images flashing through her mind, however, insist on reminding Sheila that the world has changed. What, she wonders, comes next – what will she do now? What will she do without him?

His hand squeezes down against her shoulder. "D'you want anything?"

She keeps her authoritarian tone even. "Would ye break fast with me?" He grunts, and she takes it as a yes. "The kitchens are belowstair," she explains. "Tell cook what ye wish to eat, and she shall make it. Tell her that I require a cup of warm water, and some good brown bread?"

He tries to catch her gaze in the mirror. "Sounds like you're going to prison."

Sheila snorts and turns toward the firelight. A prison or a nunnery, they would like feel the same place. And Arthur would likely banish her to either for falling so far.

He leaves the chamber, and she turns toward her own small hearth, staring moodily at the orange flames.

***

The tools of her salvation sit in a bundle upon the hearth. She contemplates her fate for a moment.

There is, ultimately, little choice left for Sheila in the matter. It's this or banishment, even if she were to produce the child of the chosen, the son or daughter of a king. She isn't Ash's woman in the eyes of the church. It would be a bastard.

She glances over her shoulder at Ash, who sits upon her bed, shoving his breakfast down his gob with zeal. He gives her a cocky grin and chokes on a mouthful of ham.

Sheila sighs her disgust as she realizes the likely result of their coupling would be a fool.

A beautiful fool, with big brown eyes.

The cheesecloth splashes hot water upon the stone hearth as it sinks to the bottom of her earthen cup.

***

She insists upon shaving him before he leaves.

Ash puts up quite the fuss as he squirms, ordering her to leave him a nose, to spare him his chin.

"I may cut a great deal of it and ye'd still have much to spare," she retorts, kneeling before him by the fire in her shift, carefully scraping the underside of his neck with the flat of her dagger.

He stares at the sharp blade as she wipes it against a spare piece of cloth, then blots his smooth skin with the dry corner. "Where'd you learn how to do that?"

Sheila watches the fire flicker. "My father was felled by an arrow through his side. It putrefied, and he failed slowly." She shakes her head to clear away the old clouds. "My mother expired years before, and Adam wert too young to perform the duty. I therefore assisted him in this small way."

Ash stares at her blankly. There is no time to explain; Sheila takes the knife and places it safely onto the mantle top. "This was his …" she points toward the cape she'd made him. "And that 'twas his cloak pin."

Ash automatically reaches for the garment and tries to pry the jewelry loose, but she stays his hand. "'Tis thine. To remember me by."

She rests her palm against the back of his hand fleetingly before turning toward the fire.

***

He places the choice in her hand. "I can stay for awhile."

Awhile. Tempted by the notion, she forces her head to shake in the negative. "Thy place is with the modern world."

She wonders if he can see the specter of her wicked side, the shadow of his twin. They stand in the path, choking her recovery, impeding Sheila's dreams. She dwelled in hell for days and remembers every suffering face, every wicked smiling demon.

He bears the same scar; they could live together, work together to get through it. But Sheila cannot live with the specters, the knowledge that he would see her forever in her possessed state. It's better to recede into his past, to become a pleasant memory.

He wraps his arms around her shoulder as the drawbridge lowers.

"I won't forget this."

THE END


End file.
